Take the World
by yaygayhooray
Summary: Tell me to stop. Tell me to stop being me. I would be kind and understanding. I would be a man of honesty and truth, if I could. But nothing I do will change who I am. But if you can accept me and love me despite my faults Eames, I will be okay being me.
1. Part 1

Note to readers: This story was based off of a prompt provided by a very lovely person over at LJ.

Take the World  
>Inception<br>Pairing: Arthur/Eames  
>Rating: R<br>Warnings: Angst, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, AU  
>Length: This part is 1298<p>

Instead of a summary, here's the prompt this was inspired by: I've read a few fics where Arthur suffers from major psychological problems, and he goes a bit mental. But I'd like a fic where he suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder. I don't want the over the top, dramatic and false portrayal of the illness though. I want Arthur to have varied mood swings (really happy, depressed, anxious etc). I want him to abuse prescription medication and alcohol. I want him to cut himself (not for attention, but to relieve his anxiety and calm himself). I want him to have massive fears of abandonment from Eames, as well as periods when he truly believes that Eames doesn't love him. I want him to take a non-fatal overdose and be in hospital, but not end up being locked away afterwards.

Disclaimer: Umm...Nolan's a BAMF and I cannot compare.

Thanks to: Many many thanks to my friend over at LJ who provided me with the prompt. Your prompt really inspired me to write this and I couldn't have done it without you!

I hear the clicking of the T.V. One. Two. Three. Four. Four times the channels click. Four times I am unsatisfied. I set down the remote and grab my cell off the table. The face is blinking—'_3 missed calls_'. Hmm. Pressing the enter key, I pull up the main menu only to find that every call is from Ariadne. She needs to learn to fuck off and leave me be. All of her little obnoxious habits; checking in on me, seeing whether I'm having a good day or a bad day. Maybe my day would be a little bit better if you weren't crawling down my throat all the damn time. Tossing my phone back on the table, I stand up and stretch myself out. There is only one number I want to blink on that phone and it isn't hers. It has been three days. Three. Fucking. Days. And not a word. Not a _single word _from that bastard. I let out a vulgar curse before walking into my small kitchen. There she is, beautiful and regal, standing there by the sink looking back at me with her dour, crooked eyes. As if vodka could have eyes that is. Grabbing my glass from the cupboard, I start to fill it up, watching as the clear liquid oozes into the glass like water—delicious, kind, comforting water…

_"And the mood goes from urgent to not so as hours pass slow. Screaming this is surrender."_ I hear the song titter from my phone as it skitters across the table pathetically. Ah, lovely. Time for my meds. With glass in hand, I head to the bathroom and set the glass down on the counter and open up the medicine cabinet. Sometimes I forget which bottle is which. So many pills. So many meds. Isn't there enough shit wrong with my body already? Are these little tiny things supposed to actually _help_ me? Take off the edge of my anxiety and chase away that little voice inside of my head, that little voice that tells me I am on the verge of collapse? Whatever. Fuck it. If the doctors say it is okay for me to take all these drugs, why not appreciate it? I grab hold of the necessary bottle and dump out three pills. The label says to take one a day with water. I snort. Oh yes, one little pill is going to work. Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it. I glance down at the glass on the counter and sigh. Why are they adamant against making this process easy? I check the label again. Clear across the bottom tab, in a small, minuscule script reads: '_Not to be taken with alcohol_'. My eye twitches in irritation as if this were the first time I've come across this predicament, which it isn't. I have the same routine every single day. And every single evening I have this same dispute—water or vodka, good boy or bad boy, to be or not to be—oh the question of it all.

_Arthur. Just do it. Why wouldn't you? Take it easy. Let the pills do their job._ Of course. Of course I should do it. I throw the innocuous little bits into my mouth and take a swig from my glass. Ah. _Delicious_. I hear the buzz of my phone against the wooden table yet again. Jesus Christ people, leave me be! By the time you finish calling me there's going to be a fucking hole in the table from the never-ending, incessant buzzing, buzzing, _buzzing_. When the noise doesn't stop, I snarl and head back into the family room. Looking down at the phone, I see Ariadne's number splashed across its surface in thick black numbers. GO AWAY. I pick up the phone and click the 'on' button. "What the hell do you want?"

"No need to sound so bitchy, Arthur. Where's my sweet friend who takes me out for movie night and ice cream?"

"He's not here at the moment so piss off."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Temper, temper. Really though, dear, how are you? I haven't heard from you in _days_. Is everything alright?"

I let out a sigh and bite my lip. No, everything is not fine. You are nagging me unremittingly like some tape on repeat and my boyfriend is being a complete and utter DICK. "Yes," I seethe. "Now please, let me be for a while. Call again tomorrow, okay? I really don't need this aggravation right now."

Ariadne sighs on the other end. "Are you sure you don't want me to come over?"

"Yes, now goodnight." I click the 'off' button and sit down on the couch. I cast my head down only to find that my hands are shaking and my foot is tapping. When did that happen? You are fine, Arthur, everything is alright. Eames could not be calling for any number of reasons. He got busy at work. He has been tired. He just…you know? No, I don't know, I don't _fucking know_. Running my trembling hands through my hair, I swallow thickly and try to collect myself. We fucked this weekend, we had sex for the very first time and he hasn't said a single thing to me since that day. He doesn't give a shit about me, does he? And why would he? I mean, just look at me—my disgusting scars, my effeminate body, my wretched _illness_. But he told me he loved me, he swore it to me! But how do I know, how can I possibly know? I spring up off the couch and start pacing. _Christ_. I take in a shaky breath and do the only logical course of action—I race back into the bathroom. Sitting on the counter edge is still my glass of water, vodka, whatever. I grasp it in my hand and chug it. SHIT! I slam the glass down and hack, my lungs _burning_ as if acid had been poured down my throat. Bleary eyes look back at me in the wavering image of the mirror starkly asking the question '_why_'? This is not enough; the tension, the fear, all of it is still clawing at my chest as if it could crawl out of skin. And then I see it—there, on the sink's edge. I quickly reach out and grasp the handle, trying to force my fingers into stillness. My entire hand quivers as the glint of steel flashes down. _YES_.

There is blood seeping down my arm from where my skin lays jagged and open to the world. I take in a shuddering breath and practically sigh with orgasmic relief. Deep, dark red gore continues to rain down my arm in rivulets but I don't care, for as I watch its migration, there is a sense of correctness back in my world. I bite my lip and listen to the beat of my heart as it slows its rapid assault against my ribs. I am okay. We are okay. Eames told me he loved me. He _promised _me.

I drop the bloodied razor into the sink and cannot help the temptation of taking my thumb and pressing it against the wound. I hiss at the pain, but nevertheless press on. Another drop of blood oozes over the top of my finger and skates down my skin. The cut was a bit deep this time; however, a little extra blood never hurt anyone, besides, it makes my nerves run from me all the quicker. I regard the red liquid on my arm and feel a sense of calm begin to make its home inside of me. So beautiful a pattern the blood makes, as if it were a piece of art and I the artist.


	2. Part 2

Note to readers: _There is one more part after this, and it is unlikely that there will be more. This is more of a snippet out of a life story. However, I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. And remember, reviews are always welcome;)_

There is the sound of a loud pitter-pattering upon my desk. I can only assume it is my cell. I am tired, so very tired today. Last night was not a pleasant evening for me, not in the least. Hours I spent, fucking hours I paced about my flat, drinking through nearly an entire bottle of vodka before I passed out on the couch; this of course resulted in me waking up with the need to have my face down inside the round porcelain god so cleverly named 'toilet'. Well, mustn't keep my customers waiting, I suppose. I can't just ignore the call or else Cobb will have my head. He was kind enough to not only hire me, but also to allow me to work from home. My doctor is opposed to the idea of me working from the apartment of course. He doesn't feel that it's a good idea for me to spend so much time alone. And my opinion? Well the doctor can screw himself is what he can do. I would rather throw myself into a barrel of acid than work with multitudes of people on a daily basis. Despite my attitude on the issue though, I am still required to work with clients, no matter how frustrating I may find the experience at times. With a heavy sigh I pick up my cell and glance down at its display—'_Incoming Call-Eames_'—HOLY FUCKING CHRIST. I quickly press the 'on' button and put the phone up to my ear. "Eames?" I whisper. Without my permission, my leg begins to jiggle and my finger begins to tap upon the wooden desk. He's calling me. He's _actually_ calling me.

"Arthur, darling," he practically coos from the other end, "how is my lovely little sweeting?" I know that tone of voice; it's the one he uses when he wants to tease me, that playful little lilt that lets me know he's in a good mood.

"_Eames_. Thank goodness. I was so worried." Without any intention to do so, I find that my tapping finger has now drifted to my mouth where my teeth are busy chewing their way upon the end of the nail. Gross! Get that the fuck out of your mouth! I force my hand back down to the desk where it begins its sporadic rhythm yet again.

"Oh bloody hell, Arthur. Don't tell me you forgot!" Forgot? Forgot what? "I told you on Sunday before I left that I had a business trip. I honestly just got back not ten minutes ago."

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding me? All this time I've been going out of my freaking mind and _this_ is the reason? Jesus Christ. "You've been on a business trip?"

"I think I just said that. What, did you honestly think that I'd fuck you and then never call again?" I cannot speak. I just simply cannot form the words to respond because in all horrific, truthful honesty…yes, yes that is exactly what I thought. My silence is apparently answering enough for Eames. "_Jesus Arthur_! Do you really think so little of me?"

"That's not it! I swear! I just—I just, _fuck_!"

"Hey, hey, it's alright, darling. It's okay. I'm going to come over for a while so we can talk about this, okay? I'm going to hang up with you now and get in the car. _Arthur_, answer me."

"Alright," I whisper. "Okay, that's fine. I'll see you soon." The line goes dead and my world seems to come to a halt. My heart is beating so hard I'm afraid it will burst from my chest. He doesn't plan on getting rid of me. He doesn't plan on breaking it off! I surge out of my chair, my body a messy jitter of nervous energy. Eames is on his way over to see me and we are going to sit and talk, and we are going to kiss (hopefully interspersed with some lovely fucking), and we are going to be very happy and content in each other's company. A broad smile that I didn't know I had in me finds purchase on my face as I shuffle about the room. The world could turn to ash right now and I wouldn't give two shits about it. I still have my Eames.

X

I hear the apartment buzzer go off and I am immediately by the door. Not that I've been standing here for the past ten minutes or anything like that. Nope, not at all. I practically rip the door off its hinges as I open it. _Eames,_ my handsome, wonderful, amazing Eames is standing here, his face a mask of indomitable smugness. My heart speeds and hot blood rushes throughout every part of my body as Eames steps towards me. We slowly move backwards, Eames slamming the door with finality behind his back. I stop walking and stand completely still. I want him to come closer to me. I want him on top of me, against me, _in _me. As if answering my unspoken request, he steps forward until our bodies are nearly touching, that thick musky scent of his clouding my senses and his hot breath fanning over my face. "Arthur," he breathes. "Oh, darling, you are such an idiot sometimes."

"Excuse me?" My immediate anger is cut short as Eames takes hold of my face and smashes our lips together. _Oh yes_. I open my lips under his and let him take me, _tame _me, his tongue moving against mine as if we were caught in some kind of erotic dance. His tongue traces the inside of mouth with ferocious intensity, finding every last nook and cranny it can and staking its claim. I am soon whimpering helplessly under the onslaught. So fucking nice to be here. So nice to be right in this moment with him.

Eames pulls back with a wet 'pop' as our mouths detach. No, wait! I reach out for him blindly only to find him shaking with laughter. "We will have plenty of time for that later. But for right now, I think it might be better for us to sit down and have a quick chat, wouldn't you say?"

Oh yeah, sure, get me all hot and bothered and then don't take care of the job! Thanks a lot you prick. But if you want to talk, then alright, I will agree with you…_unfortunately._ "I suppose you're right." With a sigh, I grasp his wrist and pull him over to the couch where we both sit down.

Taking my hands in his, Eames clears his throat. "So, you were worried, huh? You completely forgot I was leaving didn't you?"

I look down at our joined hands, very nearly startled that he is doing so. I was such a fucking dolt and you are okay with that? Just like that, you aren't frustrated with me anymore? Why the hell not? You should be angry with me, cross with me, not supportive. I bite my lip and after what seems like countless minutes, I finally give a measured response, "Yeah, I just don't particularly remember having that conversation."

"And you have been sitting here since Sunday wondering why I haven't been calling you? Thinking your inane thoughts that I was ignoring you?"

"Yes," I murmur softly. "I am sorry."

He gives me an amused look, one that helps to calm the storm inside of me. He really is not irritated with me and isn't that something wonderful? "There is absolutely nothing to apologize for. I just need you to always remember that I'm not going to leave you. Not ever. I love you, Arthur, for better or for worse, I love you."

"I love you too." My breath stutters as Eames leans in and captures my lips again. So perfect a moment. Could it get any better? I don't think so. "Bedroom?" I mumble against his lips.

He chuckles deliciously into my mouth and replies, "Who am I to say 'no' to such a lovely invitation?" His hands slide up from where they are grasping mine, gently caressing my wrists before travelling up my arms. _Shit_! I whine pathetically into his mouth as his large hand runs over my still fresh and tender wound from yesterday. Eames immediately pulls back from me and I feel my heart plummet to my feet. Oh no, no, no. Eyes narrowed, lips pulled tight, and frown lines creasing his forehead—my boyfriend is _anything _but happy right now. "_Arthur_. Roll up your sleeve."

NO! Scrambling backwards, I climb off the couch and turn around, giving him my back. I wrap my arms about myself and close my eyes. This is not happening, no, absolutely not. "Why would you want me to do that?"

"_Because_," he snarls through what I can only assume is gritted teeth, "you promised me that you would stop cutting. You promised me that you would stop that nonsense weeks ago." A shudder rolls down my spine at the words. "Let me see your arm."

Shameful tears burn at the back of my eyes but refuse to fall. There is absolutely no way out of this, I know that. I promised him, I know I did. But he has to understand, he just _has _to. I open up my quivering lips and say, "You don't understand. I _needed_ it. I couldn't help it."

"_Yes you could_. So what? Should I just assume that your promises mean nothing then? Do I just ignore the things you say to me because I know you could renege a few days later?" The words, the tone, all of it, are cruel. You are being absolutely horrid, Eames. But I know you are right. You are saying nothing but the truth.

Despite my internal cries, I still cannot help trying to defend myself. "It's not like that at all, Eames! You just don't get it. You don't understand what it's like feeling as if you have no other option, feeling as though the anxiety will choke you unless you do something, do _anything _to make it stop."

Although I cannot see him, I can feel his eyes boring into my back. The feeling alone makes me want to scream. "No, I guess I don't understand," he says quietly.

I hear the couch creak ominously. Whipping around, I find Eames walking towards the front door. WAIT! "Eames! Where are you going?"

He doesn't turn around as he takes hold of the door knob. With a voice filled to the brink with cutting dark rage, he replies, "I'm going home to think about things for a while, Arthur. Is that okay with you? Because right now I am so bloody fucking pissed at you that I cannot bear to even look at you." He does not wait for a response as he steps out the front door. The weak wooden frame wobbles dangerously as the door slams shut. The sound of it propels me into action; I let out a guttural cry and race towards the door. Eames! COME BACK! When I open the door, I find nothing but a cold, empty hallway, leaving me alone in a silence so thick one could cut right through it.

My body is pulsating with the dread filling up every part of my being. He doesn't love me. He doesn't want me. I'm going to be alone. Forever alone. Stupid, stupid, stupid! My throat clenches and I cannot breathe. My Eames is gone. I shut the door and fall into it, wanting nothing more than to curl up on the floor and die. What's the point of it all? Why am I here? What the _fuck _am I doing? A tear trembles on the edge of my eye before slipping down my cheek silently. The pain in my chest tightens every muscle, leaving me gasping. _'I cannot bear to even look at you_.' I cannot bear to look at myself. There is only one clear course of action. I could end this. It would only be too easy to rid the world of my _repulsive _person. I push away from the door and stumble towards the bathroom. _It must be done, Arthur_. _Do not shame the world with your presence anymore. You are nothing but a disease. You can only cause pain and suffering. It must be done_. Yes, yes, that's right. I have to do this.

I open the cabinet with trembling hands and grab the first bottle I see. The top flies off and little white pills scatter across the floor. So striking yet calming those little pills appear, like a fresh fall of snow in winter. The sight of it steadies my hand as I dump the remaining…fifteen, twenty, thirty, whatever many pills into my hand and start shoving them into my mouth. I swallow most of them, yet several of the little fuckers end up crunching beneath my teeth and searing my taste buds. _Sick_. These things taste like utter shit. When the first bottle is empty, I look on to the next and the next and the next. I cannot stop. I _must _do this. I just want the pain to go away. _Please _just go away. Eames doesn't want me and I mean, why would he? Someone who destroys their own body, someone who cannot control themselves, someone who _lies_, someone like _me_. I down another bottle of pills before I start to feel the numbness begin to crawl throughout my body. My arms flail with lack of coordination as I try to grab another bottle; however, my body has apparently had enough for my knees give out beneath me. As I am falling, falling, my hands are scrambling with the edge of the cabinet and knocking the remaining bottles across the floor. The tiles are hard and unforgiving beneath me, sending a sharp wave of pain up through my legs. Urgh. I grapple with the edge of the sink, struggling to grasp it as if it were moving about, which I know it isn't. Focus, come on focus. Finish the job, Arthur. Finish it! But no matter how many times I try to clear my vision and clear my mind, my world remains an absolute blur. I don't even feel it when my body hits the floor. All about me I see a hazy sea of orange. It is all so beautiful it is, the slow sound of the pills rolling inside of those bottles, like a song composed just for me. Oh how peaceful an end to make, how peaceful.


	3. Part 3

Note to readers: _Was this story dark and complicated? Yes. But you know what? I really enjoyed writing it:) The final length of this story is 6100 words._

Thanks to: _Thanks again to my wonderful prompter. This story was an absolute joy to write and I'm glad I got the opportunity to do so._

_Eames. Eames? I can't see, Eames. I need you. I _need _you. Please find me. The darkness is consuming me and I cannot fight it. Christ how I need you... _My eyes slowly flutter open to the brightness of day. Fuck! The sunlight sears my eyes and causes me to flinch. Shit it's bright out. Wait a second. Where the _hell _am I? My heart beat quickens and nauseating panic sets in. My hands start to tremble as I glance around at my surroundings. White curtains, white floors, white sheets, white is all I can see as if I were caught in some surreal artic landscape. Am I dead? Surely I must be. There is no other explanation. But that's what I wanted, wasn't it? That's what I was doing before I lost consciousness—shoving pills down my throat. I push myself up hurriedly and look down at my shaking fingers. I'm dead? How can I possibly be dead if I can still see these hands, if I can still feel that anxiety clawing at my chest? Then, as if a switch had gone off in my brain, it finally registers…_hospital_.

"Listen Doctor…what the hell was your name again?" I know that voice!

"Abrams," a man responds in a clearly frustrated manner.

"Doctor Abrams, I appreciate your concern, truly I do, but I swear to fucking God if you lock him up I will personally hunt you down," by the time Eames finishes talking, his voice is nothing more than a deep growl. "You cannot have him." My entire frame shivers as I listen to that voice, but not with fear. So dangerous and fierce he is, so _intense_.

"I need you to calm down, Mr. Eames. This decision is not up to you, it is up to his primary psychiatrist who has yet to make a decision on the matter. If you wish to take it up with him, feel free. But threatening me will do you no good. Instead of getting in my face, perhaps you should consider what needs to be done for Arthur's sake. Are you going to watch him every second of the day? You don't live with him. You don't know what he's capable of. This is the second time he's tried to commit suicide in the past four years. It may not seem like a lot considering his condition, but there is an element of the unknown here. What will set him off? What will drive him to this place again?"

"I understand that," Eames snaps darkly, "but perhaps you weren't paying attention the first time you and I had this discussion. Arthur is moving in with me. End of story. No, I will not be home all the time; however, that doesn't mean we should be afraid that he's going to try and kill himself every five fucking seconds." His tone deepens considerably as if the words were physically hurting him. Don't be upset, Eames. I'm here for you. "He did this because of _me_, Doctor Abrams. If I had been more supportive, we wouldn't be in this situation and this discussion would not be taking place." No, no, don't think that way! It was _me_! It was _my_ fault!

"Your very words are contradicting each other. Are you really sure that you are what's best for him? You just said yourself that your actions are what caused him to do this."

What's going on? Who's doing what now? You did nothing wrong, Eames! Why are you arguing about this? My hands continue to tremor and my breath heaves out in a pant. Shit, shit, shit! What the _hell _is going on? I need you to tell me what's happening! "_Eames_?" I call out tentatively. I immediately hear footsteps and the curtain pulls back to reveal my boyfriend. The moment I catch sight of him, the fear within me dies. There is no need to be afraid, not when he's here with me, not when my Eames has come for me. He stands by the side of the bed looking down at me. His eyes are bright, his hair is disheveled, and his wrinkled clothing is the same as when I saw him last. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Oh, _Arthur_." Eames practically falls on top of me and pulls me into his embrace, his stocky frame trembling as it encompasses my smaller one. As I'm holding him to me, my arms squeezing tight and my face tucked in next to his, I come to the startling realization why he's shaking…he's _crying_. Eames of all people is actually _crying_. I dig my face into his shoulder and breathe in deeply of his comforting, musky scent. I thought I'd never get to do this again. I thought you were gone to me forever.

"What's the matter?" I whisper.

"I thought I'd lost you," he wheezes between tears. He takes in a shuddering breath before he can respond. "I was halfway home before I realized what I'd done. I got to the apartment and you wouldn't answer the door or your phone. I had to kick down the bloody fucking door—still have the limp to prove it too. And when I got in—" he swallows thickly, "you were lying on the floor, _convulsing_. I thought I was too late. _Jesus_. I thought you were _dead_." His arms tighten about me and his shaking dies down. Oh gods, I did this to him. _I_ did this to my Eames. What was I thinking? What the _fuck_ was I doing? How could I make him suffer like this?

I don't know how or when they began, but I am almost surprised to note that tears have begun to trickle down my face. How could I have done this to myself, to _Eames_? How could I? How _dare _I? And then, almost instantaneously, the switch goes off inside of me. Seconds pass and then those water droplets trailing down my cheeks steal the air right out of me and deteriorate into sobs. I'm such a fucking idiot! Why would I do this? Why, why, _why_? Because…because…_because_ I thought he had gone forever and that I was only making him suffer. Around the choking, halting tears, I manage to say, "I thought you had left me for good. I thought you didn't love me."

"_Never_, darling. _Never_." He takes in another steadying inhale and says, "I can't bear the thought of ever being without you. I need you to remember that always. I love you. Please don't ever try this again. _Please_. I love you."

"I love you too. Oh Eames, I love you." I weep into his shoulder and let the warmth of his body soothe over me. I don't deserve him, I don't deserve someone so amazing and forgiving. I truly don't. "I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. This is all my fault. You deserve so much better than this, than _me_."

Eames pulls back, running his thick hands up over my shoulders and neck to cup my face. Thick, calloused fingers softly trace over every plain of my damp cheeks as if for the very first time. I close my eyes at the sensation and just _feel_. These hands caressing me, loving me, I wish I could feel them forever. Eames voice dances over my skin, "Don't you ever believe that for one moment. This was not your fault. I was the one who wouldn't listen. I was the one who refused to try and understand your feelings. And don't you _dare _believe that there is someone better for me. There is no one I would rather be with. Do you hear me, Arthur? Do you?"

"Yes," I whisper back. I tilt my face into one of his palms and sigh with relief. Eames, we'll always be together right? Always? Or am I deluded to think so? I can only pray that I'm not mistaken, that I'm not completely and utterly wrong. "We'll be together. Always."

"Yes," he murmurs. "_Always_."

The sound of coughing drags my eyelids open. Who. The. _Fuck. _Is messing with the most exceptional moment of my life's history? I will surely punch out your lights for ruining this. I turn my eyes to 'he who wishes to disturb' and find myself gazing into the blue eyes of the doctor who I can only assume is Mr. Abrams. "Can I help you?" I snarl. Go away you prick and leave us be.

"I'm sorry to disturb you." You sure as hell don't sound sorry! "However, I need to examine you. You've been out for an entire day and I need to make sure there are no visible side effects before we run our tests."

I crinkle my nose at him and resist the urge to snarl. You're disturbing us for _that_? Honestly, I don't really want you to touch me. Period. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. I would _much_ rather tear you a new one. "And if I refuse?"

"_Arthur_," Eames warns. "Darling, listen to me." I shift my eyes back to my boyfriend whose warm hands are still holding my face. The look in that gaze of his can be described in one simple word—_apprehensive_. And I have to ponder as to why. Eames is not one for fear or anxiety; his assured attitude is one of the many fascinating qualities about him. For him to be giving me this look is not a good sign. What's wrong? "Don't make this difficult for them, okay? I know you dislike seeing doctors," _that's _the biggest understatement I've ever heard, "and that you don't always enjoy following instructions, but this is really important."

"What's happening?" I breathe. I glance briefly at Dr. Abrams. Go away you dick! Although my soft tone gives me the illusion of confidentiality, I know the good doctor here is still listening to every word I say. And isn't that just absolutely _delightful_? With as much focus as I can, I turn my attention back to Eames and ignore the doctor. "Why are you so concerned, Eames?"

"_Because_," he replies gently, "they are discussing taking you away, Arthur. They are contemplating locking you up."

The world could stop on its hinges for all I know. Time could stop. The world could explode and still I would be unable to form a coherent thought. All I can hear is a loud ringing in my ear and the sound of my own ragged panting. _Lock me up_? "You mean put me away? _In the crazy house_?" Eames' reply is a jerky nod. OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. I wheeze in a shuddering gasp. Oh fuck no, no, NO! My chest heaves painfully in its desperate attempt to take in air, but there is none to be had. They can't do that! _They can't possibly_!

"Arthur, look at me. _Look at me_." Eames hands tighten on my cheeks, drawing my attention back from wherever it had decided to disappear to in its shock. "Breathe. _Breathe_. I will not allow that to happen, Arthur. Do you hear me, darling? _Never_." My eyes continue to look into his determined gaze as I harshly pant through several silent seconds. My heart is racing through the cavity of my chest, desperately attempting to tear its way out. But as I continue to look into those beautiful eyes, such beautiful eyes, the first burst of panic begins to settle. My breath comes back to me slowly, yet rest assuredly. I wrap still quivering hands around Eames biceps to help still them and keep myself concentrated on him and nothing else.

I have to do this. I have to listen to him. I can't allow them to lock me away. I would surely _die_. "Okay, okay. I will listen. I promise," I murmur. Swallowing around the lump scratching at my throat, I say, "Will you stay here with me?"

"Of course. Just try and get rid of me." Granting me with a wonderfully gorgeous grin, Eames pulls me forward to place a gentle kiss on my lips. "Now let's let the dreadful doctor with the piss-poor attitude see to you."

Doctor Abrams snorts loudly at the insult but says nothing in retaliation. That's a good lad. Just keep your fucking mouth shut this time round. "If you could step back, sir, so I can get to the patient?"

With a swift nod, Eames' warm fingers trace my chin one last time before dropping away. Damn it I want them back. Placing a hand over mine he says, "It's alright, Arthur." I let my hands gently fall away and rest against my sides. Eames instantly rises from the bed and goes to pull a chair next to me. Once he is close enough I immediately reach out and snag his hand. He squeezes it and gives me a small grin, a grin which means the entire fucking world to me. Although the thought of going to the loony bin makes my brain want to short-circuit and my anxiety want to choke me until I'm dead, for once I know that Eames is here for me. I know that a week from now, a couple days from now, or even as soon as a mere several hours from now, that I may not feel or think the same way. Such is the way of my illness. Nevertheless, for this moment in time, for this one single marvelous flash, I know that he and I are united and that he loves me just as much as I love him. I know that he wants to be with me and does not fault me for my sins. His forgiveness and his acceptance are things I cannot fathom, for I know I do not deserve them and I know that even I do not grant them to myself. But for this moment at least, I know that his feelings are genuine and that I still have him. I still have Eames beside me. Nothing can stop us from being with one another. Nothing can take this away from us, for when the two of us are together we could take on the whole of the fucking world.


End file.
